Cheerleaders Don't Cry

1

Marcy Hannon
It wasn't a break up.
Those were the words that repeated over and over in my head like a comforting song, as I sat in the cold bathtub of a house that wasn't mine, at a party I never should have came to. They were the soundtrack of a scene in the janitor's closet, five minutes after lunch had started, Travis pushing me away and stepping into the far corner of the closed space, his hands raised in front of him as if he was trying to make me disappear.
Look, I don't think we should do this anymore.
Things are really good with me and Amber now.
I just don't want to mess anything up.
This is just between you and me, right?
The only thing I could do is nod and smile, yeah that's fine. That's great. I'm happy for you two. I couldn't figure out why it felt like I'd been punched in the chest. It shouldn't have hurt. Travis was just another guy, one of many that I've held private and not-so-private affairs with in school closets and bathrooms and the backseats of cheap cars, while their girlfriends texted them over and over wondering where they were and why they weren't replying. I'd figured out a long time ago that I wasn't exactly "girlfriend material." I was, however, the perfect cheating material. Guys don't want the girl they're cheating with to be clingy and emotionally attached. They want someone that they can use for a couple of weeks before they get bored, and then they can quietly scrape you under the carpet. They want someone temporary, someone disposable. Someone like me.
The first time was the hardest. He was a senior on the swimming team, and I was a scrawny little freshman whose cheerleading uniform was one size too large. Four months of sneaking around and skipping classes before I found out he had a girlfriend. Or, more accurately, before she found out about me. By the time I'd realized the truth, the news had already spread around the school, a nasty little rumor that earned me disgusted looks from the girls and obscenities from the guys. I wasn't a girl anymore, I was a thing. I was an option that guys could use whenever they were bored and discard when they were finished. That one incident had solidified my reputation, rendering it permanently unchangeable for the next four years. I wasted the last few weeks of freshman year trying to set everything straight and reverse the damage, but nothing that I did worked. Sophomore year, I learned to embrace it. I could play the part of the easy, sleazy girl. I could brush off the jabs and rumors for four years. I could manage going to formals and proms alone, dancing with every girl's boyfriend on the floor. I could handle being used and then blatantly rejected. I could handle being alone.
Until I couldn't.
The truth is, this wasn't a break-up, but it definitely broke something inside of me. Something I needed to fix, but I didn't know how. Deep shit, I know, but it was true. I couldn't walk around all sad-faced and broken hearted over a guy I'd only been cheating with for three weeks. I couldn't afford to. That's not how Marcy Hannon works.
The only viable solution I could think of was getting wasted.
I decided to show up at Jessie Phillips' house for his annual Halloween party. I arrived around 10 at night, dressed as Harley Quinn with the tight pink crop-top, fishnet stockings, and heavily applied makeup that I knew would sweat off within the hour. I was grateful for the red and blue ponytails that went with the outfit, since I knew that nobody would be there to hold my hair back while I puked.
The inside of the house stunk of warmth and sweaty teenagers, engulfed by the loud music and the slight tinge of marijuana. As soon as I stepped foot through the doors, I knew that I didn't want to be there. I didn't want to be alone in a crowd of people, a stick-on smile ready in case anybody cared enough to see me.
Somehow I ended up here, the second floor bathroom, sitting in the cold bathtub with my fishnetted legs danging over the porcelain edges, the faded blue shower curtain pulled across the rings so that no one would see me when they entered. There was a pile of crushed and empty beer cans beside me, brown tinted droplets leaking from the lids and swirling towards the drain. I'd thought that getting wasted would make me feel better, but instead I just felt empty and alone, a thousand times worse. I don't know how long I sat there, but eventually the dizziness in my head and the bitter taste on my tongue and the aching feeling in my chest got to me and the tears came. I've always hated crying, in front of people and when I'm alone, because I feel equally as pathetic in both situations. Whenever you cry, your vulnerability magnifies and breaks open a massive doorway that holds everything you keep bottled up inside, giving free entrance to whoever happens to be closest to you.